


Old Ghosts

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Comfort, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Food Issues, Gentle Sex, Greg Makes Everything Okay, Greg is Sweet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Protective Greg Lestrade, Sherlock is a Brat, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26813029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Following painful experiences as a child, Mycroft's relationship with his body has never been easy. Though he and Greg have been married for eight years now, it only takes one sharp comment from the right person to reawaken his old ghosts. Luckily, Greg knows how to lay them all to rest.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 38
Kudos: 531





	Old Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally part of my ficlet collection. Given its themes, I've decided to move it to its own work with its own tags and content warnings.
> 
> **Please give me a yell if you ever find my work posted somewhere other than AO3.**

There are always signs. They're different every time, but always there. After eight years together, Greg has had plenty of practice at spotting the return of old ghosts. The trick is to catch them as early as possible, rip the thoughts out at the root before they get themselves embedded too deeply. 

Sometimes, that's easier said than done.

*

This time, the first sign is a sudden disinterest in restaurants.

"I happen to like your cooking," Mycroft explains when Greg asks. "And I'd rather not keep eating into our retirement fund. That's all."

Greg notes the small flicker in the back of his mind, but doesn't push it. He supposes they did indulge themselves a bit over Christmas—friends, family, meals out at every opportunity. These things add up. Trying to save a few quid now that it's January doesn't mean anything.

The thought is a mistake.

*

The second sign comes one night when Greg is working late. He gets home just after nine, exhausted from his shift, and finds Mycroft working alone in his home office.

"Good day?" Greg asks, twisting off his tie. "What did you have for dinner?"

"Reasonably productive," Mycroft responds. He's busy typing, his tired grey eyes trained on the screen. "Anthea's maternity leave approaches rather more swiftly than I'd like, and her replacement is trailing behind in terms of efficiency. Then, we haven't time to select a new replacement."

Greg pauses, a few buttons into undoing his shirt. 

"And dinner?" he checks.

Part of him already knows.

Mycroft barely pauses. His fingers stall just a little in their typing. "I was waiting until you came home."

"I told you I was getting something at work," Greg says with care.

Mycroft continues to type. 

"It slipped my mind," he says. "I've been occupied with these preparations, Greg. The summit is in a month."

When he's changed in jumper and jeans, Greg returns quietly to the office. He kisses Mycroft on the top of the head.

"I'm gonna make you some pasta, okay?" he says. "Twenty minutes-ish. Be ready for a break then."

"Oh—no, Greg. Thank you. I'm not hungry. There's no need to—"

"What did you have for lunch?"

Mycroft says nothing, typing.

Greg inhales with care. He knows already in his bones what's going on; the benefit of the doubt is hard to give. 

"I get that you're busy with the summit," he murmurs. "And I know it's easy for you to get absorbed when I'm not around for meal times. Just... make sure you've eaten, will you?"

"Mm," says Mycroft. "Of course." He carries on typing, his eyes down.

*

The third and final sign comes just a few days later. Unusually for a Friday, both of them make it home before seven. Mycroft has just finished cooking when Greg steps through the door, dishing up a vegetarian chilli which makes Greg's stomach growl just to smell. Mycroft gives himself a smaller portion, claiming a hefty lunch with the chancellor, but he seems in good spirits.

After dinner they settle with a film on the couch, cuddled up like they did when first dating. Greg fetches a bottle of wine from the cellar and they break it open. By the time that credits roll, they've idled into kissing and stroking, Mycroft's body arching gently into Greg's hopeful touch.

As they stumble into the bedroom, kissing, Mycroft snaps off the light. 

It's half a sign, enough to tug at the corner of Greg's attention, but not enough to stop proceedings. 

That comes a little later in bed, deep in foreplay and both panting in the darkness, one last item of clothing left to remove: Mycroft's shirt. It's the final scrap of fabric between them. Greg has pulled at it, dishevelled it and eagerly pushed his hands beneath it, but somehow it has made its way into bed with them—and now, as Greg reaches for the buttons, Mycroft catches his hands and gently grips them. He reaches up to kiss Greg, trying to distract him.

Concern flickers at once through Greg's mind. 

He settles into the kiss until Mycroft has relaxed, then makes another attempt on the buttons. Once again, Mycroft sleeky detains and relocates his hands. He pushes them between his thighs this time, moaning softly, disguising his nervous denial as a request for pleasure.

Greg has done this for eight years now—eight years in love with Mycroft Holmes and all his ghosts. He waits until he's inside Mycroft, until the initial discomfort has eased and they're moving together, sharing breath, sharing their quiet moans as they kiss, Mycroft's blush risen high into his cheeks. His barriers have fallen now. He feels safe and comfortable here in their bed, settled and warm, moaning faintly as his husband makes love to him. The soft cotton of his shirt rumples between them. He shivers a little on each push, panting, kissing Greg's mouth and restlessly gripping at his forearms.

"Gorgeous?" Greg broaches, his voice soft.

Mycroft takes a moment to respond, swallowing, visibly rebooting the language modules in his brain. "Mmh?"

"Why're you keeping your shirt on?" Greg asks.

Mycroft's breath catches. "I…"

"You worrying about your body again, beautiful?"

No answer comes. Just silence, fear. Mycroft swallows again, staring up into Greg's eyes with a panic as if Greg has just figured out some hideous secret—as if beneath the shirt, Greg will discover that Mycroft has warped into a completely different being, and Mycroft's world and everything in it will come crashing down around him.

Greg kisses his husband slowly, deeply, cradling his face with one hand.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs against Mycroft's mouth. "Nothing's changed… you know that?"

Mycroft stiffens. 

"Six pounds," he says, his voice tight. "Over Christmas."

"I hadn't noticed, love. Nobody has. I promise."

Something wild and frightened flashes in Mycroft's eyes, a look which only one person ever seems able to cause in him. Greg doesn't need to think for long. He nearly bites through the side of his cheek as he realises.

"Sherlock," he says. "New Year's Day. _Damn_ it. I wondered what the hell he'd said to you. Jesus, you only went outside with him for five minutes to smoke."

Mycroft's eyes darken, shining. He doesn't say a word.

"M'going to speak to him in the morning," Greg mutters. He kisses Mycroft deeply, his heart straining in his chest. As their lips come apart, he breathes, "I'm not having this any more. You're gorgeous. More gorgeous than ever. Fuck your brother and fuck the scales. _I_ gained six pounds over Christmas, darlin'. He's not making any digs at me about it. He only does it because he knows it hurts you. And he can fucking well stop it."

Mycroft's eyes grow darker, their shine deeper. His hands are starting to shake. He spent their first two married years in weekly therapy, safe in his new husband's love, getting over the worst of what Greg's in-laws would probably still call a childhood but Greg is more inclined to call a fucking disgrace. The body image is only a part of it, but it's proving one of the most tenacious. It only ever takes a few pounds, one bad photo or one bloody comment from Sherlock, and they're right back here for a while, this place where even Greg's loving gaze causes fear. They're back here where the lights go off, and the shirt stays on, and dessert menus are nothing but a guilty reminder, and Mycroft skips meals because he feels like he doesn't deserve them.

Greg leans close, cups his face and kisses him, then wraps both arms around him.

"Shhh, beautiful... it's alright... c'mere." He buries his fingers in Mycroft's hair. Mycroft shakes against his neck, breath fracturing. "I've got you, love," Greg murmurs. "It's all alright. Let it out."

Love will heal it. It heals all things, and it always will, no matter how many times they come back to this. Greg doesn't mind. He'll pour love and care over Mycroft Holmes's wounds until the end of their lives, regardless of how many times someone reopens them. He's done it for eight years now. It gets easier every time.

 _Fucking Sherlock,_ he thinks. Sherlock doesn't know it yet, but he's getting both barrels in the morning. He's going to have his brother-in-law on the doorstep before noon, explaining to him exactly how fast and how far he can fuck off. The next time they return to this place, where the ghosts are, it won't be Sherlock who's sent them here. Greg will ensure it.

For now, though—for tonight—Mycroft is in dire need of care.

Greg is more than happy to give it.

"You're beautiful," he whispers. He trails his fingertips through Mycroft's hair. "You know that? You get more beautiful every year. More gorgeous than you've ever been. You're so much happier these days. It shows. And it doesn't matter if we're gaining a bit of weight, darlin'. Doesn't matter at all. You're still fucking lovely. I still have the dizziest bloody crush on you."

Mycroft nuzzles into his shoulder, still shaking.

"Please do not leave," he whispers. The words are tiny, barely there. Greg's still inside him, still held within his body, as close as two people can ever be. "Please," he begs. "Please, don't... don't change how you—"

Greg closes his eyes. He can't bear it. 

"Is that what your brother said?" he asks. "A couple of extra pounds, and my eyes'll go wandering? 'Cause I'm a shallow bastard, am I?"

Mycroft doesn't respond. His arms simply tighten.

Greg tightens his arms, too.

"Never," he whispers. _"Never._ I love you for good. Forever, sweetheart. You're not a number on the scales. You're not your brother's jokes. You're mine, and I love you. Love your mind, love your body. Love every little piece of you. And I always, _always_ will."

Mycroft shudders, breathing out. For a few moments there's quiet between them, simply holding each other, breathing, letting the healing start.

Mycroft's hips rock a little. 

"Please," he whispers. "I... I want..."

Greg's chest aches. Mycroft wants to make love. He needs to be shown, not just told. They've walked this path before. Greg remembers every step. He knows the way back, and he'll bring Mycroft with him, safe and sound.

He strokes his fingers beneath Mycroft's chin, coaxing him close to kiss.

By the morning, Mycroft is nestled naked in Greg's arms, the shirt discarded by the bed. He eats three meals under Greg's gentle supervision. Sherlock receives a visitor mid-morning, a visitor who arrives without a smile or any hint of warmth in his greeting, asks John to go upstairs for a bit, and doesn't leave until the situation is totally clear.

That evening, Mycroft gets an apology text. This has never happened before. The best apology will be changed behaviour, Greg thinks, and he'll believe it when he sees it. It's a start, though. It'll help.

That night, the lights go out—but as Greg nuzzles at the fabric of Mycroft's shirt, no hands come up to stop him. Button by button, the ghosts withdraw.

They'll be back, though not for a while. They come fainter and smaller and weaker every year.

And each time they return, Greg Holmes-Lestrade will be waiting.


End file.
